


I have always loved…(Sherlock AU) 3x02

by mantra4ia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Dad Sherlock, Dancing Lessons, Disguise, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Fluff, I Love You, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock AU, Weddings, i love dancing, parenting, timing is everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mantra4ia/pseuds/mantra4ia
Summary: Sherlock has always loved dancing, and something else as well. Someone.Disclaimer: This is my original work of fiction based on the source material of BBC Sherlock. Characters referenced and some dialogue quoted are from The Sign of Three which is the original work of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, BBC Sherlock. Based on the works of Arthur Conan Doyle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is slight deviation on how events in 3x02 unfolded, hence the AU tag.  
> I may make later revisions to include Mycroft and Greg. Not sure yet.

“You’re formulating a question. It’s physically painful watching you think.” Sherlock stopped dancing just long enough to put on his best withering stare for Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson could only smile, the kind of sunshine smile that would irritate a teenager who just wanted to sleep in 5 more minutes, but was rudely awakened by the light and the turn of the earth that he’d always assumed revolved around him. She positively beamed, “Oh, what lovely music. I thought I heard you playing.” I _never_ imagined you were dancing, she thought, but kept to herself.

“It _was_ me playing.” Sherlock said gratingly as he plucked up the controller, switched off the recording of his rehearsal score for John's wedding, and ticked off a notation on the sheet music lying on the commons table. _Tempo 1/16 th too fast._ “Mrs. Hudson, I am _composing_ , a practice best done alone.”

Mrs. Hudson would not allow herself to be caught up in Sherlock’s childish goading…well maybe a little. Kept the spirit young. “Sherlock, you were dancing. That sort of practice is better with two. But don’t even think of asking me, my hip simply won’t do.”

Sherlock scoffed at the thought in knee-jerk fashion, but his mind momentarily analyzed and entertained the notion. “I was road-testing.” He couldn’t very well own up to the truth that _he loved dancing,_ in fact _he had always loved dancing_ his entire life.

“You what?”

Sherlock threw down his pen, no longer focused enough on his piece for the wedding (his gift to the happy couple) to make improvements. In this state, he was more liable to tear it to bits, which certainly wouldn’t help. So turning to his landlady, he readied an exasperated rant to tear her to bits instead. “Why are you here, Hudson?”

As cool as can be, satisfied with the emotion she’d primed in her tenant, Mrs. Hudson placed her next incindiary charges with precision. “I’m bringing you your morning tea.” She poured some milk into the teacup, which she knew aggravated him because, like his coffee, Sherlock preferred his tannins ‘undiluted by calcium.’ “You’re not usually awake, though.”

“You bring me tea in the morning?” This was perplexing and possibly worth remembering in the future; should he ever be poisoned, Mrs. Hudson was now a probable suspect of means.

“Well, where d’you think it came from?” Daft genius boy!

Sherlock could think of nothing except honesty in that moment. “I don’t know.”

“Good heavens, he finally admits it.”

Sherlock bristled a bit, and tried to shore up his argument. “I just thought it sort of happened.”

"Like I’m sure you assume that the fresh pair of eyes in the fridge, though I do so hope they’re not human, are a gift from God and not—”

“Please Mrs. Hudson, I’m neither pious nor delusional…”

“—Molly Hooper.” Charges placed. “Perhaps she’ll help you to ‘road’ test your dancing.” Clear. “It could use a _little polish_.” BOOM. And with that, Mrs. Hudson skipped down the stairs nearly two at a time, and out of range of Sherlock’s projectile bow rosin.

And damn it if the seed wasn’t planted and growing weeds into Sherlock’s mind palace. “Molly,” Sherlock turned the CD player back on and re-centered himself on the composition, but not without first tapping a few keys out on the instrument of his greater amusement.

Within a matter of moments and a handful of characters later, an upbeat note rang out from Molly’s mobile. The tone of a violin E string being plucked. That E-string could only be one person.

_> >I need a favor. Come to 221B expediently. In practical shoes. SH_

_> Bit of bind Sherlock, sorry, I’m out with Tom. Helping him pick out a suit for the wedding. I asked him weeks ago. He’s a bit useless that way. _

Good, at least if Molly were shopping with the lump, her shoes were suitable.

_> Maybe after lunch. Sorry again._

Well that wouldn’t do. Sherlock didn’t even pause the CD or slap on his coat that brisk Saturday morning. He bounded the stairs of 221B, flung open the door to the street with both hands, not bothering to shut it despite Mrs. Hudson’s protests that any old vagrant off the street could rob them, and sprinted down Baker Street. As quickly as it began, Sherlock hinged to a stop on the corner and idled. In a matter of moments, Ben and his rolling cart of clothes and food stuffs for his small shelter on Waysmith Road, ambled past. Right on time according to daily rituals. Quickly, utilitarianly, Sherlock took a crisp hundred pound note and a uni-ball pen from his pocket. In scrawl, he penned a message along its long edge, folded it squarely, and passed it off with a sincere ‘good morning’ to the homeless man, who simply nodded in earnest thanks. Sherlock whistled his way back, in no rush, to 221.

Sixteen minutes later (a little slow for the homeless network but effective), just as Sherlock played the closing chord and made the final alteration to his sheet music, his message alert went off with a corresponding text from Molly:

_> Sherlock, I need a favor._

_> >Make me an offer._

_> I can meet you at Baker St in 12 minutes._

_> >Make me a serious offer. 10 minutes or less to open negotiations._

The phone chimed no longer, but seven and a half minutes later Molly appeared in the doorway. She was out of breath, but no less sharp, “Tom has food poisoning —”

“That’s untimely.”

“Which is odd, because he only had a salad at lunch—” there was an undeniable tension in her voice.

Oh dear, _a health-conscious man who only ate salad at lunch. He was not going to last long with Molly Hooper without making her feel self-conscious and guilty about her own well-balanced but heartier eating habits, and subsequently he would, if not now then soon, become bodily acquainted with the business end of a salad fork somewhere that hurt._ “Must have been the dressing.”

“I need a ride to the wedding tomorrow.”

“An escort you mean?”

“No, just a lift. I know you’re _escorting_ your ex…Janine. Tom will meet me later at the reception if he’s up to it. But I need to be at the church early per Mary’s request and so do you to orchestrate the photographers. It makes practical sense to ride share.”

“What’s a lift worth to you?”

Molly cut to the point. “What do you need, Sherlock?”

Molly was officially a horrid bargainer. “Three and a quarter hours.”

“That’s the rest of my day gone Sherlock!”

“John expects me to dance at his wedding; consequently refusal means pain of death. I’m a fast learner, but I can’t very well practice on my own.” Sherlock did his best to make the idea sound like a mundane chore.

“Come again?”

“I won’t repeat myself for your satisfaction, you heard me perfectly clear. Do you accept, Molly?”

Molly, by way of an answer, proceeded to clear the furniture out of the way and husked off her over-sized jacket on John’s customary armchair. The following 20 minutes Sherlock spent utterly regretting his inane gut instinct to take Mrs. Hudson’s advice. He should have known better, Molly was - after all - the mortician with the most personal incident reports at St. Barts, and reason followed that this clumsiness made her a horrible dancer. But rather than spend the next three hours in utter misery, concealing his affinity for dance while watching Molly flounder about, Sherlock abandoned the original plan and resolved to teach her. First there was some shouting and bumping of heads, then came Sherlock’s violin playing as he watched Molly execute a few basic steps to the tempo, independently and at a distance for the safety of all involved.

Mrs. Hudson listened in amusement downstairs as the minutes ticked by, completing rows upon rows of knitting with the new skein of wool yarn that Molly had brought over. Gradually Sherlock’s playing was replaced by the recorded CD as the pair joined hands and soldiered on through the harrowing experience. After 12 tracks played through, all slightly different iterations for John’s wedding song, there was about half an hour of near silence apart from rhythmic footsteps. Until, at last, there was a sound so alarming that Mrs. Hudson made haste to the door.

“Sherlock it’s getting late, so I’ve called you a taxi dear,” she said to Molly.

“Are you daft Mrs. Hudson, we’ve only just begun-”

“It’s been 4 hours Mister.”

“What?! Goodness I have to get home and feed Toby, or the flat will be in shambles. Sherlock, ” Molly couldn’t quite work out what to say, “it’s been an unexpected pleasure. I wouldn’t worry at all about tomorrow; how does the saying go? if you can teach the skill to others then you’ve mastered it —”

“Molly—” Sherlock intoned a warning, or rather a curt cue as Molly began to ramble.

“And even in the worst case scenario, at the very least you’ve warmed up sufficiently to take the rust off — ”

“Molly—”

“Yes?”

“8:30 tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you in the cafe.”

“Sounds fine Sherlock…you’ll do fine.” And with a final departing hug to Mrs. Hudson, Molly took to the road beneath the flat, where she turned the corner to wait for her cab. Just out of sight of her, Ben watched carefully to make sure she departed safely, per Sherlock’s request.

Shortly after, quite square-jawed and proud as if she’d caught a canary, Mrs. Hudson confronted Sherlock, who by contrast couldn’t be bothered and began to rearrange the furniture back to the exact photographic reference in his mind. “What was the meaning of that dreadful business Sherlock – dancing is one thing, but dancing _and laughing_? Careful, or you’re liable to hurt yourself. Or her.”

“I assure you neither of us is in stitches.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of yourself, from the sound of it you might have strained an emotional muscle.”

Sherlock turned his back to her, with a firm “good night Mrs. Hudson” before climbing over the coffee table to collapse onto the fold out sofa, fully clothed, after 4 straight hours of tedious but somehow fulfilling dancing. He’d taught Molly Hooper to dance, it was an odd accomplishment on his professional resumé but no less fascinating.

He was so tired in fact that he slept through Mrs. Hudson’s first two attempts to wake him and at 8:55am Sunday morning was only roused by the smell of a dark roast with two sugars before him. “What time is it?”

“8:56am.” Molly began tapping her foot. “Sherlock, you’re not even dressed!”

“Of course I’m not dressed, I told you to meet me at 8:30!” He quipped to Molly while at the same time absconding with the takeaway coffee cup that was clearly marked for her though she didn’t choose to scrimmage that battle.

Instead she countered with, “no, YOU said that YOU would meet ME downstairs in the café at 8:30 and I assumed that meant fully dressed.” Molly averted her eyes as Sherlock began to strip off articles of clothing here and there out in the common area before disappearing behind his bedroom door (thankfully still decently covered) to finish the rest of the transformation process from thankless hobo to best man. “I’m not your alarm clock, Sherlock.”

“No, certainly not!” he shouted from beyond the door, as if the lack of such machine-like quality was a personal failing that deducted points from her character.

“We’re going to be late!”

“Hardly,” was all the reply Molly got over the next five minutes, despite varying protests, threats, and curses, until finally after banging on the door a fourth time out emerged a fully respectable (as least outwardly) Sherlock. Tie pristine, layers of suit jacket expertly tucked, shoes crisply laced, everything except his hair – which was still a tousled mess.

“Allow me,” Molly said, but it was not so much a request as it was a demand. Mrs. Hudson kept Sherlock focused while Molly attacked and slicked his curls with a wide tooth comb. Only the coffee kept Sherlock from protesting…too much. “There, finished.” And the odd party of three locked up and descended down the Baker Street aisle. “Now, who’s car are we taking? I thought Mrs. Hudson's perhaps..."

"No." If Sherlock was going to spend the day retorting in one word answers, Molly braced for a migraine.

"That's odd," Molly replied, trying to hold back the contention in her every word, "because I wasn’t aware you had a car, Sherlock.”

“Who said anything about a car?” What was worse than one word responses? Questions disguised as answers, Molly thought peevishly.

It was then that Molly heard the droning off in the distance, like a turbulent sea. Three blocks west on the roof of a car park, a helicopter was waiting and they embarked. Presumably this was part of Mycroft's wedding present.

Molly’s stomach wished that she had asked Greg for a lift instead.


	2. Chapter 2

The best-man speech was glorious. Tom missed it of course, but came just in time for Sherlock’s series of deductions about a murder on the premises. He proceeded to make several half-cooked tries at reasoning, accompanied by several not subtle prompts to sit down: at first forgiving when Molly thought Tom was just delirious from dehydration, but progressively more hostile as he summarized his conclusions in two words that should never be used to describe anything but a satay skewer (meat dagger indeed). Tom’s hand, as predicted, met with the business end of Molly’s fork. But the rest of the evening passed relatively as expected and to plan - at least for people like John and Sherlock - in a frenetic flurry of the case, showering petals, the chase, murderous photographers apprehended, and finally when the dust had settled, dancing. After fumbling through the first two rounds with Tom all elbows and knees, with Molly’s blessing he retired early to their suite. They’d made an overnight reservation at the reception hall to save them the drive back home in the early hours. It also afforded them the chance to drink copiously, which if Tom could not enjoy on account of feeling wretched, Molly was enjoying full well until she saw Sherlock and Janine in the foyer.

Molly, a bit more courageous than standard, decided to edge closer to catch a whiff of their conversation. Just as she was about to cut in and ask Sherlock for a dance, Mary took her by the hand within her rounds thanking the guests in attendance. “Don’t you think you’re getting off that easily, Molly, you might fool the Holmes boys but there’s no conning me!” And in a spin Molly was twirled onto the dance floor for a vigorous waltz with the stunning bride. She felt self-conscious and underwhelming in every way next to Mary, save one, and so Molly set free her hidden dancing talent. She took the lead straight away, a dubious task even for the newlywed groom in contrast to his formidable wife. And yet she swept Mary across the dance floor amid a gale of blissful laughter. “Why would you ever pretend to be horrible at this?

John told me Sherlock called you yesterday to fill in as a dance partner because he needed to brush up, but that he ended up spending most of the evening teaching you. Why did you never tell him?”

“Because Sherlock wasn’t nervous about the dancing. I think he might actually love it, inwardly, he’s well-practiced. He was worried about the best man speech really, spinning himself into a nervous rut. That was fairly obvious when he sent me a text in the middle of the day without taking the time to insult Tom. So I tried to take his mind off it.”

“How did that work out?”

“Well, if there’s one thing Sherlock’s rather rubbish at, it’s teaching. It took all his concentration not to wreck the whole flat while spinning me around, and tired him to the point of passing out on the couch. That’s all he really needed, a distraction and a full night's sleep, so I suppose mission accomplished. And he did get fairly better in his instruction, so there’s a bonus.”

Mary studied her best, her only real girl friend in quite some time, with bemused satisfaction. “Molly, have you ever considered a minor covert position in the British Government, you might be rather good. Your disguise was impeccable – fumbling all thumbs pathologist.”

Molly blushed. “Not really, not if you could figure it out.”

“I took a guess by how vividly you watched Sherlock and Janine out on the dance floor that you were admiring both the _man_ and the _form_. Sometimes guesses pay off.”

“I’ve always loved dance, just not the attention that went with it, and it’s easy to hide behind a clumsy exterior if you are well-aware of your body. I still remember what it was like to be a beginner – all the mistakes common to novice performers are simple enough to imitate.”

“Who do you gather is better, between the two of you?” Mary probed, enjoying herself far too much for not having touched the champagne yet.

“Well, I was on scholarship for the first two years of medical school because of ballet – so I’d hazard a guess it's me.”

“Ha!” Mary exclaimed as Molly dipped her.

“I had to give it up, the course work just became too great, but I never really gave it up.”

“Don’t worry dear, your secret’s safe with me.”

“We all have our secrets Mary,” Molly whispered, and for a split-second Mary stumbled and looked at her with cold hard discernment as they came to an abrupt stop amid a crush of dancing guests. What exactly did Molly know?

Molly’s suspicions were confirmed, at least in part, by Mary’s reaction. Guesses were sometimes fruitful. Her first hypothesis Molly dared not put to words, because Mary was one of her dearest friends and she would never breach that confidence, but as to her second theory Molly bowed her head just a bit and mumbled, “Congratulations. You and John will make great parents. I wanted to give you a head’s start because if _I know_ , that probably means Sherlock will accost you next, and you might want to tell John before that. You know what a whirlwind Sherlock can be.”

Mary sighed in relief and said “don’t I ever” as she pointed Molly in the opposite direction toward the approaching Sherlock, and gave her a small shove.

“Molly!” Sherlock exclaimed, riding the natural high of a joyous occasion - solving a case of course, a successful best man speech, and a well-built rouse to dance and play the violin freely without the odd complaint. “I’m feeling particularly festive today, and seeing as you’ve made vast improvements” had he seen her with Mary? “in such a short while dancing with Tom,” no, her clutzy disguise was still intact, “would you like to dance? I believe we are both up to par so as not to embarrass ourselves.”

Molly looked him up and down. She desperately wanted to grab him by the shirt and dance with him, but looking around at all the other smiling faces among the reception, she realized two-fold that the night was not remotely about her and that she was the only heartsick, sullen face in a sea of celebration, which was highly inappropriate to commemorate the occasion.

It was just not the right time for the two of them.

“Perhaps another time, your dance with Janine was quite lovely, but I don’t feel up to it. I think I’ll turn in early.”

“Are you unwell?”

“Yes, I suppose that must be it.” Molly found that lying came easy once she made a start, “I probably have a bit of food poisoning myself.”

“That’s not possible,” Sherlock retorted, because it was literally impossible since Sherlock had conducted Tom’s incapacitation.

“Maybe a bit too much to drink then,” Molly wished she could vanish into the unscrutinizing crowd.

“You’ve only had two and a half drinks, three’s your minimum for real devastation. Molly?” he called after her.

But as quickly as she came, Molly disappeared.

She had just about made it freely to her room, except that John Watson was casually leaning on the door frame when she approached.

“First, allow me to thank you sincerely for sharing this day with us, Molly."

"Thank you for having me," she said sheepishly.

"You're an integral part of our lives, always have been. So please, just answer me one thing. Why didn’t you dance with him? He worked so hard, he enjoyed himself on something that wasn’t a case. Why couldn’t you both just enjoy it together?”

“Because it’s not the right time, John.”

“How do you know?”

“For starters, we’re both attached to other people.”

“That’s a feeble argument given both your relationship histories.”

“More to the point John – it’s not the right time because this was a case to him. _I need to be more than a study that needs solving_. Maybe someday.”

“Not everyone gets a someday, Molls.” John gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Take what you can, when you can, while you can share it with someone.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Sidecar,” Sherlock prompted over the idling of the motor bike, as the girl approached him with an obvious longing.

“Don’t you want me to sit beside you?” she teased.

“Of course," he said, still gesturing laterally "but it’s not appropriate. Helmet,” he said, as he handed the passenger gear to Eleanor and the bike took off down the road. At stops or lulls in the traffic, they began their customary conversation which brought no end of joy. “I’m afraid we can’t go out to the promenade to make observations this afternoon.”

“Pity.”

“While your extracurricular maths and science academy takes priority, it also takes time. We can’t be in three places at once today.”

“You do it all the time.”

“I have a network.”

“How does one acquire a network?”

Sherlock shuddered internally at the cutting questions his seven year old daughter had learned to ask. Both ways he’d learned to network, either through criminal activity or recreational drug use he could hardly explain to her, nor could he in good conscience advocate social media, nor could he lie, so he evaded. “Homework?”

“None but that of my own making.”

“Trouble?”

“None but that of my own making.”

“Good girl.” Sherlock replied as he pulled into the last parking space (and by parking space it really was a space created solely from Sherlock’s imagination) in a packed lot out front of the recital hall / dance studio, affectionately called _Amateur._

Inside the tap recital was just about to start, but Sherlock and Eleanor still took the effort to run around the back to the stage door. Inside it was warm, raucous, overstuffed with sound of footfalls, and thrilling. Sherlock could feel the blood pumping in his temples as he used his superior height to scout the performers until he found at least one particular one that he’d been searching for. With very little effort, Sherlock flung an eager Eleanor unto his back and together they parted the crowd. “Target one spotted. Keep an eye out for your brother.”

“Target two is closing in on target one,” Elle called, “engage!”

Elle disembarked from Sherlock’s shoulders with no less flourish than her father, Molly thought staring at them both. Mirrors. “Hello Sherlock.” Molly’s greeting words may have seen icy to any observer, but they were filled with more warmth and familiarity between the two of them then anyone at a glance could surmise. Evidenced by the fact that Elle produced a single red rose for her brother William with a teasing face and an inciting “break a leg” while Sherlock offered Molly a single white rose and then another, and another.

“Why did you stop at three?” Molly baited with a smile.

“Three flowers for the woman who brought three extraordinary things into my life.”

Molly didn’t need to say anything, she knew the rosiness of her face said enough, though William felt the need to make smart remarks to his little sister for only bringing him one rose for luck while spinning her round, each attempting to make the other sick. They were both exceedingly smart and stupid all at once, Sherlock mused. The perfect children.

“I saved you seats at the back of the house so that you and Eleanor can watch the show _and_ people watch.” Molly whispered.

Sherlock took advantage of the dense atmosphere and close quarters to smooth a piece of her stray hair. “Thank you, but I think we have the best seats from right here,” to which he quickly added, “a fine job, Ms. Hooper, teaching all these mischief makers along with your own.”

Molly was about to protest that teaching was only a weekend enthusiasm, and that the results might not meet expectations considering that tap dance was not her forte, but it would have greatly annoyed Sherlock if she cut herself short about her passions. So Molly settled for, “at any rate, this will be a good warm up for tomorrow.”

“For the impending vows you mean?”

“Try not to sound too cheery.”

“Will I finally get the chance to dance with you then?” Sherlock was still a bit aggravated at being outwitted nearly ten years ago, but he owned up to it well.

“It’s a distinct possibility…you’d better,” Molly gave him a strong hug and a kiss on the cheek as the houselights started to dim and the assistant instructor began to order the disorderly rabble. “I better get on with it then.” But a curiosity had taken hold of her. “Sherlock, do you ever think there’s something wrong with us? Not wrong really, but do you ever regret doing this the long way around?”

Sherlock was infinitely puzzled. “I don’t make a habit of regretting what’s perfect, Molly Hooper.”

Molly smiled. “Soon to be Holmes.”

“Interesting. I’ve just realized you won’t have to change your initials, which is handy if you have anything sentimentally monogrammed…”

Ten years, how far they’d traveled and much further still to go, but it finally dawned on him in the end. “Oh Sherlock,” Molly sighed, and as the lights went down she let him lead a dance in that full dark. Neither of them had to see to each other realize that their partner would steady them. Neither one fell.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely satisfied with the ending, it's a bit kitschy. Any advice to make it better is always valued.


End file.
